


standing in the rain (without you)

by ghostwit



Series: (possibilities) to not be alone [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Character Study, Drake is referred to as Dory for the better half of this., Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I guess? For Law at least., If you think this has plot you will be disappointed gvafhvjdk, In which Law becomes a Marine (but this is before that!), Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23095906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: The kid is fucking loud, that’s for sure, stumbling blindly along the coast and wailing, loud and long, just full bodied fucking cries as the birdcage sings into center behind him.(Dory's a coward, but there's some things he doesn't think he can leave behind in the snow of Minion Island.)
Relationships: Trafalgar D. Water Law & X Drake
Series: (possibilities) to not be alone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683994
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	standing in the rain (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> REAL CRYBABY LAW HOURS  
> THIS BITCH A LIBRA !

The kid is fucking loud, that’s for sure, stumbling blindly along the coast and wailing, loud and long, just full bodied fucking  _ cries _ as the birdcage sings into center behind him. It sets something off in Dory, some sort of wiring right to his vulnerabilities that makes him tug at the sleeve of the young Marine officer leading him from where he’d crouched along the craggy rocks that make up the shoreline of Minion Island, feigning injury and disorientation and any other kind of misfortune that’d befall a boy of his slight stature. The man furrows his brow for a second, expression steeped in annoyance, if his brisk halting was anything to surmise from, before his gaze followed the direction of the boy’s pointed finger. He stumbles over the grandiose sweep of his coat as he hollers for the boy, rubber boots sliding comically in the snow, the sight enough to quash the rising feeling of dirtiness in Dory’s chest.  _ Justice, _ he reads, and smothers a smile into his gloved fist.

* * *

“Don’t,  _ don’t _ tell them,” the boy cries, hitching and rolling with each gasped breath, the act of living enough to resolve him to pained half-screams, all air and no throat. “Don’t, please, you can’t.” He’s grimacing, brows furrowed as if he’s torn, cloak pulled up high around his nose and throat (there’s a wet patch along it, and Dory’s sure that’s where his mouth is) and Dory slides teeth into his upper lip as he tucks it behind his teeth, lower lip rolled up to cover where bone meets flesh. He huffs a breath through his nose and turns away, implicit permission. 

He wants to pick the kid up, sling an arm around him and let that wet patch migrate to the robin’s egg blue of his coat, swaddling his scarf around him, the barest hint of a memory of his parents in his childhood, but his skin goes tight at the thought. He’s not bred for this, and he doubts the kid would appreciate it either. He’s busying himself, still hiccuping and blubbering, hopping off the infirmary bed (Really, why did the marines think it was okay to leave them alone like this?) and rifling through the drawers for--a scalpel. He lifts it in a flourish, turning almost expectantly, pleased radiance simmering away the moment he lands on Dory. ( _ We'll meet up in the next town, Law! _ ) The look of withering disappointment is not something new to the young man. “You won’t tell them.” he says, and a blue bubble explodes from the center of his palm. 

“What?” Dory jerks back, legs sliding tacky against the plastic film along the bed and elbows knocking hard against the wall. The resolve in the boy’s glare begins to wither, wobbling white and glossy, so he shuts his mouth and turns away again, sliding off the bed stepping delicately out of the blue aura. The kid seems pleased, crawling up into the space Dory had vacated. He runs the scalpel along the bottom edge of his cloak, a strip of fabric coming off with a string of pops, each thread snapping where he’d severed the knit, and stuffs the filthy material into his mouth. 

His face screws up, as if he’s about to start wailing again and Dory sinks to the floor, draws his knees up to his chest and folds his arms over his head. He can feel the rough of scales, flexible and firm, cropping up along his elbows and crawling up his forearms. He peers up from beneath the veil of soft blue pressing his auburn hair across his forehead, and meets the boy’s vacant stare, the outburst seeming to be only that. There’s spit running down his chin and he’s sweating, skin shiny with moisture despite the cold--and, that’s when Dory sees it, the splotching, paler than pale against warm-toned skin, around his lips, his clenched fists, arcing over his eye and up into his hairline, and again, he’s struck right to the wiring of his soul. He doesn’t know what to think, scrambling to settle on a thought, just an  _ oh _ , from deep in his gut. And then the boy drives the scalpel into his thigh. Dory screams into his knees. 

* * *

He’s panting, crying weakly, almost divorced from the act with the way tears swell and slip down his cheeks passively, his bubble diminished to just enough to hover an object about the size of a grown man’s fist, a human heart, white and lumpy. It almost matches the pallor of his skin, grey-brown, gone so clammy and drained that the patches over his skin match the saturation of the untouched. Dory snarls, teeth sharpened to needlepoint and reptilian tail thudding against the floor in a steady beat. He narrows his eyes at the floating object, almost a question in his gaze, and the boy just narrows his own in return, a challenge. 

"Don't touch it," he hisses, fragile, a chest made of blown glass, paper thin and prone to shattering. His throat is hoarse from the screaming, cloth limp and saturated with spit and blood where it hangs around his neck. 

"Like I'd want to," he snaps, punctuated by the click of teeth. He hasn't said anything, but with the way he's wobbling from his vantage, he's almost sure the kid thinks he’s hallucinating the coarse change in texture cutting the boyish lines of Dory’s face. He’s unsure where the irritation comes from, the kid’s presence rubbing up against all the wrong nerves, childish wailing leaning into tendencies the man didn’t think he’d be capable of so soon. Damn the vulnerable, justice and all. 

“Don’t you,” he bites back a wail, whimpering on the last word, “tell anyone.” On a slow exhale, he slumps forward, out-cold. The lump--metal, it seems to be, albicant all the way around and catching the light--clatters loudly to the linoleum at Dory’s booted heels, chipping into powder around the edges. 

* * *

“My name is Drake,” he says (It’s not a lie, it’s not) handing the bundle wrapped tight in the cloth previously stuffed hastily in the younger’s mouth, still damp. The boy’s eyes flit down, nose twitching in repulsion, teetering on the edge of another crying fit, but he takes it. 

“I don’t need to know,” he mutters. “I’m going to have to do that again now,” his fingers twitch and the film stutters as it gathers below his downturned palm. 

“You’ll kill yourself,” Drake sneers, brushing entirely human hands over his thighs, his coat abandoned to pool in the boy’s lap, a makeshift blanket before he'd come to, though it wasn't much larger than him. He figured tearing down the tarp encircling the bed would've been too obvious, especially with the kid's adamance on no one knowing.

“The white lead’ll kill me first.” 

“Jesus!” hisses Drake, “That’s what that was?” The boy’s lip is wobbling again, glare hard and icy, and Drake bites his lip. “Whatever, whatever," he turns away, reaching out to pull his coat up around the boy's shoulders, almost unconsciously. He tucks his head into the collar, frowning deep, and pretends he's not crying again. He mutters half a noise, the same thing he'd been crying out in his fitful sleep, hands fisted and pounding against the mattress hard enough to rattle the metal frame. 

"Just, fuck," he despises his filthy mouth, another gift his father had shoved hastily past his teeth along with the soap and wooden canes, "you don't--"

* * *

The ship’s captain had been briefed quickly, survivors of the incident on Minion, two boys, scarred and battered, checked over by a nurse before being swiftly trundled out of the room by the scared wailing of the smaller one, his wide grimace and boring stare, melted gold by lamplight, stark in a sunken face. He yanks the curtain back quick, and the visibly older of the two snaps to attention, malnourished, bruised arm arcing into a salute, eyes wide as if the smooth, practiced motion was a surprise to himself. The younger is muttering curses, tidying a blue coat about himself, a tattered cloak laying on the floor, half-beneath the bed. His legs are too short to touch the floor, the tips of leather shoes just barely glancing the fabric. 

“Rise and shine, boys,” They’re shivering, the both of them, skinny and exhausted looking, but, still, there’s resolve peeking from beneath the bruising, the red-rimmed eyes and the hoarse whimpering, “Welcome aboard command unit number…”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm NOT happy with this piece AT ALL but like. the idea of Drake picking Law up when he leaves and them becoming brothers or whatever is really fucking tasty. Also makes all the fic I write of them fucking really awkward, but it's fine. Marine Law is just. I have lots of thoughts. 
> 
> Uploading so soon again because of that like. huge break I took sdchbjkn. PLEASE leave a comment if you enjoyed or anything, I really do appreciate every single one. 
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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